Barry himself was apolitical. He had never had much time for the orange and the green, the Loyalist-Republican divide that bedevilled public life in Ulster. Fortunately, in the mid-’60s, it seemed to be quiescent in the province in general and certainly in Ballybucklebo. Long may it stay that way. Barry was convinced that good health was worth as much as any political ideology, but although no socialist, he was willing to admire the Labour Government for bringing in the National Health Service in 1947, under which he practised. Every working man and woman made a weekly contribution, so in times of ill health, they paid nothing for their care.
He moved along the shelf. A book by Sir Mortimer Wheeler, the moustachioed archaeologist whose TV appearances had done much to make his discipline popular. There was The Lonely Girl by Edna O’Brien; Catch-22; The Chronicles of Narnia, whose author, C. S. Lewis, had been born in Belfast; The Sand Pebbles by American author Richard McKenna; and several works by Barbara Cartland.
“I like books,” she said from behind him. “All kinds of stuff.”
Barry turned. His mouth opened and he had to swallow before he could say, “My word, you look stunning. Have you got a fairy godmother like Cinderella’s back there to help you change?”
She wore a knee-length, sleeveless black dress. Black satin opera gloves complemented a patent leather clutch bag and low-heeled shoes. She spun slowly and he saw that between her shoulder blades there was a diamond cut-out neatly bisected by the single long plait of her hair. “Do you really like it?” she asked. “Dad and Mum gave me the dress for my birthday.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I really do.” He’d remember to ask about her birth date later, but now he moved to the door. “We’d better get a move on or we’ll be late for dinner.”
“Let me get my coat.” She pulled it off a hook on the door. “I know I should wear a hat, but I hate the silly things.” She chuckled. “I don’t like false eyelashes either even if they are all the rage.”
“You don’t need them,” he said, and meant it. As he helped her put on a lime green coat she lifted her plait over the shawl collar. Close to her he inhaled a gentle perfume.
“You be good now, Max,” she said to the springer.
The dog looked at her with soulful eyes and jumped up on the couch.
She closed the door behind them.
When they were settled in Barry’s Volkswagen he said, “We’re going to the Old Inn at Crawfordsburn.” He started the engine.
“Lovely,” she said.
“We’ll need to be quick. I was told when I made the reservation that they had a full house tonight. Don’t want to lose our spot,” he said.
“I’m so sorry I was late—”
“No apologies necessary, Miss Nolan, you are worth every minute of the wait.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I like a man who can pay a girl a compliment.”
Barry, entranced by the musk she wore and the nearness of the lovely young woman in the small car, tried to think of some kind of response, but found himself more than unusually tongue-tied. The traffic was heavy on the Belfast to Bangor Road. He would just have to pay attention to his driving. Every Irish village was a bottleneck to through traffic. In Ballybucklebo he stopped behind cars waiting for the traffic light.
She chuckled. “I like blue eyes too.”
Barry glanced across at her. She was looking straight at him, one eyebrow raised. He glanced away. This was unheard of. Men were supposed to do the wooing. The best he could manage was, “I … um … I prefer green.” The traffic moved on.
“Green eyes go with red hair,” she said, “and red hair can be a sign of someone with a temper.”
“Your hair’s copper, and I don’t believe for one minute you have a temper.”
That laugh again. “Try me,” she said. “Be cruel to an animal and just watch.”
“I think Max is safe from me as long as he keeps his hairs to himself.”
Sue reached over and plucked a long white one from the lapel of his jacket. “I see Max has greeted you.” The gesture was natural and yet so intimate that he quivered. They passed Number One Main Street. “There’s your house,” said Sue.
“Well, not exactly mine,” said Barry with a grin, “but it’s where I live. Things are in a bit of an uproar there at the moment. Our housekeeper is in hospital … she’s fine,” he said quickly, catching a glimpse of Sue’s look of distress. “She was quite ill but she’s definitely on the mend. I can’t tell you what was wrong … patient confidentiality. But she’ll be fine. In the meantime, though, two bachelors are having to get along without her.” Barry had phoned from the ward this morning to let Fingal know about Kinky’s general state of health but hadn’t mentioned the God-awful brick he’d dropped. He’d not had time to talk about it when he’d gone home to get changed this evening either, although O’Reilly had stuck his head out of the lounge to say that Jack had phoned and Kinky’s pneumonia was improving.
“I’ll bet the whole village is pitching in,” said Sue.
“They are. Hang on.” Barry’d let his mind wander and hadn’t realised he was going too fast. He felt the rear slide and wrestled the car through a seemingly endless hairpin bend. He was sweating by the time they were back on a straight. “Phew,” he said, “sorry about that.”
“It was exhilarating,” she touched his arm lightly, “but I think that’s enough excitement for one drive.”
“I’ll pay attention,” he said, and did, not speaking until he’d made the left turn onto the Crawfordsburn Road where there was no traffic. “There’s a bit coming up I’ve always loved,” he said, and drove round a gentle curve. “Just here.” The car went from the low purple light of the spring gloaming into a dim tunnel as the road meandered between two rows of ancient elms. Hedge parsley bloomed pale against the darkness of the grass, and the bells of tall foxgloves hung along the verges. Barry glanced up to where the branches intertwined to make a canopy of freshly shot leaves. He let the car coast through and didn’t bother to put on the headlights. “My dad, he’s on sabbatical in Australia, used to drive me through here if we were going to Belfast. It’s one of my earliest memories. It’s—” He sought for the words, but when he glanced over at Sue, whatever had been forming in his mind dissolved.
“It’s lovely, Barry. Reminds me of a place not too far from Broughshane in Glenarm.”
“Which,” Barry said, “is no distance from Ballymena. I’m going to be working there starting in July.”
“Are you? So you’re leaving Doctor O’Reilly’s practice?”
“Yes, well, temporarily anyway. I’m going to get my obstetrics training at the Waveney.”
The car moved into the velvet night as they left the trees behind. The moon had risen, gibbous, waxing, and silver.
“And I’ll be home for the school summer holidays,” she said. “When you get to Ballymena, where I live in Broughshane’s just up the road. Don’t forget that back at the Christmas pageant I invited you to come and see the Glens of Antrim. There’s a spot called ‘The Madman’s Window’ that’s a great place for finding Neolithic things.”
“I haven’t forgotten the invitation, but I didn’t know about the Stone Age stuff. I noticed you had a book by Sir Mortimer Wheeler.”
“The Excavation of Maiden Castle,” she said. “I’ve an aunt in Dorset and my family used to visit most summers until she died. I’ve explored that hill fort up and down, every rampart and ditch. It’s fascinating.”
“You’ll have to meet one of our patients,” Barry said. “I’ll introduce you to Sonny Houston. He’s a retired archaeologist.”
“I’d love that.”
Barry recognised that in making that simple statement he had already decided he wanted a second date with this bright, lovely young woman, one who by her reading tastes had interests ranging from archaeology to American civil rights.
He pulled into the car park of the Old Inn, stopped, and opened her door. He tingled when she, uninvited, took his hand in he
rs and started pulling him along. “Yes, I’d like to meet Mister Houston—”
Invitation accepted. Great, Barry thought.
“—and right now I’d love a glass of wine,” she said as they went into the black-oak-beamed hall.
The dinner-suited maitre d’ frowned at Barry, who said with a straight face, “Maternity case. Sorry we’re late, Bernard.” Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly wasn’t the only one who could bend the truth in a good cause.
“Of course, Doctor Laverty. Let me take the lady’s coat.”
Barry waited until it had been put in the cloakroom.
“Please come this way. Your table’s ready.” Bernard led them along a corridor to the dining room.
Sue chuckled and said sotto voce, “Was it a boy or a girl?”
“Twins, actually,” and he smiled as Sue stifled a yelp of laughter. “It was the best excuse I could think of.”
“For my lateness.” She squeezed his hand. “I am sorry about that, but it was an important meeting.”
They were seated, menus and a wine list were left, and Bernard discreetly withdrew.
“Was it a curriculum meeting?”
She burst out laughing. “Sorry, it’s just that I can’t imagine my colleagues meeting on a Saturday night. No, I belong to the Campaign for Social Justice. It was sort of an emergency meeting up in Belfast. The group’s grown a lot since it started in Dungannon.”
“Oh.” Barry had heard of the organisation. Inspired by the civil rights movement in the United States, they’d been agitating for civil rights in Ulster for a couple of years. “One man, one vote and that sort of thing?” As apolitical as he was, Barry reckoned that having as many votes as the properties you owned was unfair to folks who rented and had no vote.
“Exactly,” she said. “We’ve been writing letters to the British P.M., Sir Alec Douglas-Home. We’ve not achieved much. Tonight we were trying to decide what the next step should be.”
She leaned across the table and took his hand in her satin-covered one. “But I don’t want to talk any more politics tonight, Barry. Not tonight.” She looked into his eyes and for Barry nothing mattered at that moment but those eyes and the satin touch on his hand.
“Tell me more about Barry Laverty.” And as she spoke the flame of the candle between them released a curl of smoke that twined itself around two red roses in a slim Waterford vase.
15
They That Have the Power to Hurt
“Almost perfection,” O’Reilly said, peering over a plate bearing traces of Hollandaise sauce. “It would have been total bloody perfection if you’d made me four eggs Benedict. You are one of the wonders of the modern world, Kitty O’Hallorhan.” Not minding that Barry was also at the table, O’Reilly puckered a pretend kiss for her.
“Glad you enjoyed them. I’ve always believed Sunday breakfast should be special, but,” she inclined her head in the direction of his tummy, “two is plenty for you, Fingal O’Reilly.”
“It’s also true,” said O’Reilly, smiling at her and patting his belly, “that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” He saw Barry grinning and hazarded a guess at what he was thinking. “Any remarks from you, young man, along the lines of ‘for some folks it would be a hell of a long trip’ will be treated with the disdain they deserve. Just because you must have had a good night out last night and are full of the joys of spring today there’s no need for disrespect for your elders and betters.”
Barry laughed. “How could you even begin to suspect me of such a thing, yer honour?”
“Because,” said O’Reilly, chuckling, “if I was in your position when that remark was passed and you had a gut like mine, it’s what I’d be thinking.”
“You’re a certified mind reader, just like Kinky, who—” Barry frowned and pushed away his plate.
“You all right, Barry?” O’Reilly asked.
Barry shook his head. “I need to talk to you both about Kinky.”
“Kinky?” Kitty said. “But I thought Jack Mills said her temperature was falling and he was certain the antibiotics were working.”
Barry took a deep breath. “Physically she’s better,” he said, “but…” He glanced from O’Reilly to Kitty and back to O’Reilly. “I made a gaffe yesterday. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to talk about it on the phone.”
O’Reilly sat back and waited.
“She asked me how we were managing. I told her how much we missed her cooking.”
“After one forgivable error I’ve become a pretty damn good reheater,” O’Reilly said, then smiled at Kitty. “But your fresh cooking has been greatly appreciated.”
Barry sighed. “She was agitated from the morphine and very talkative. I think I got carried away … not only did I tell her Helen was answering the phone—”
O’Reilly nodded. “You told her Kitty’d be doing a bit of cooking.”
“And fielding the calls at the weekend. I’m sorry. I should have kept my mouth shut.”
O’Reilly sucked in his breath through his teeth. He could imagine Kinky feeling how easily she could be replaced. He had to get her to understand that Kitty, even after the wedding, would be working full time and that Kinky would be as important here as she had ever been. But simply telling her would not be enough.
“And Kinky was upset?” Kitty asked.
“Very. She cried. I told her not to worry, but, well…” Barry shrugged.
“Oh dear,” Kitty said.
“You are not to feel as if you’ve done anything wrong, Barry,” O’Reilly said. “Kinky will soon be allowed visitors who aren’t family and she would have found out about Helen in no time. She knows Kitty’s been coming here. You just confirmed what she must have suspected. In fact, I told her Kitty was coming for the weekend myself, and she knows I can’t cook much. To a degree, what’s happened now has only brought things to a head a couple of months sooner.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Kitty said.
“When you move here in July, once we’re married.”
“And you think there’ll be friction then?”
“For a while. Until she sees there’s no threat. I’ve known Kinky Kincaid for a long time. This is her territory. A chap called Robert Ardrey has written a book about how primates behave. One trait is setting up pecking orders, another is protecting their territory. She’s scared she’ll lose her position. The concern had started even before the illness and, of course, she’s worried. That was clear the day I saw her in hospital. If this hadn’t blown up now she’d soon have seen in July that you were too busy with your own work and realized nothing had changed. But now her imagination can run riot.”
Kitty asked, “So what can we do?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m glad you told her, Barry. Honesty is always best, and this way it doesn’t look as if we’re trying to hide anything.” O’Reilly grinned and lit his pipe. “When she gets used to the idea that somebody else she can trust will be feeding me—you’ll be gone to Ballymena by then, Barry—I might even be able to persuade her to take some decent holidays.”
“That’ll be the day,” Barry said, but nodded and smiled. O’Reilly was relieved to hear him sounding more cheerful.
It was Kitty’s turn to nod, if a little slowly.
“So you two try not to let it upset you. I’m not quite sure how to go about pouring oil on Kinky’s troubled waters.” He felt his eyebrows meet as he struggled with possible solutions. Finally he said, “For the time being, I think we should be comforting to her when we go to visit, but I think we’re going to need a bit of action too. The Chinese say ‘Talk doesn’t cook rice,’ and they’re right.”
“So what should we do, Fingal?” Kitty asked.
Sometimes, O’Reilly thought, being the font of all wisdom could be draining. “Honestly?” He shook his head. “I haven’t the foggiest notion now, but I’m sure when we get her home, to her home here at Number One, we’ll come up with something,” O’Reilly said, then tipped his chair back on its two rea
r legs and looked at Barry. “Kitty’s not going home tonight until after suppertime. How’d you like the rest of the day off?”
“I’d not mind a trip back to the Yacht Club,” Barry said. “We start racing next month and there’s still work to do on the boat I’m crewing.”
He could have Kitty to himself with Barry away. “Off you go then,” O’Reilly said, and rocked, teetering on the brink. Yes, something would come up. Kinky was feeling vulnerable now, but she was a sensible woman. A bit of reassurance and time to heal and the Corkwoman would be back in her rightful place here.
He took another long draw on the pipe and let himself relax. Something white landed on his chest, and he felt his chair going backward, initially in slow motion but gathering speed. He whirled his arms like the sails of a demented windmill and roared, “Bloody cat.”
Barry lunged forward. He missed.
O’Reilly clutched for Barry’s hand, but grabbed the tablecloth.
Lady Macbeth, emitting an eldritch howl, leapt to the curtains as O’Reilly’s chair hit the floor. His teeth rattled. Lady Macbeth continued up the curtains to perch on the pelmet and hurl feline vituperation. Her tail looked like a terrified cactus.
Above her spitting and yowling, O’Reilly could hear the clattering of plates. Forgetting Kitty’s presence, he let go a stream of blasphemy that would have made a sailor blush. He was happy enough to accept Barry’s hand and struggle upright.
“Holy thundering Mother of the Sainted Baby Jasus in velvet trousers,” O’Reilly spluttered. “I’ll marmalise that bloody cat. Jumping up on my chest and knocking me arse over teakettle. I’ll skin her ali—”
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